IMPORTANT NOTICE: Due to inactivity, Merlin's Academy is no longer a Harry Potter RP site. It is being used for CASUAL, CLEAN RP of ANY TOPIC among friends. If you wish to join, however, please feel free; we would love to make new friends. Thanks to everyone who made MAE what it was before, and we wish you all lots of love and a great life up ahead. <3

Who We Are [Evetta]

[[A/N: This is a NON-HARRY POTTER RP. Instead, this building is being used as a Muggle boarding university, and places around are merely for use of location. That is to say, our characters and this RP takes place in the MODERN world.]]

Go to boarding university, they said. It'll be fun, they said. You'll make lots of friends, they said. So he did. He left behind the familiar streets of Poitou-Charentes, family, and friends, armed with fluent English thanks to his mother, fluent French thanks to his dad, and a whole bunch of dreams.

And they had been right.

Studying creative writing had never been something that six-year-old him had thought he'd end up doing. No, his younger self wanted to be a fireman, a police officer, an astronaut, and all these other 'cool things'. And to some degree, he'd accomplished at least one of those things, volunteering as a fireman the moment he was 18. It had been an amazing two-year experience, until his father took him aside one morning and asked him the question that changed everything.

"Mon fils," he'd started. My son. It was something he said only when he was being very serious, and Drew had stopped eyeballing the newspaper and turned to face his father. "Pourquoi faites-vous ce que vous n'aimez pas?" Why do you do what you do not like?

A year later and Drew was nearing his second month in Merlin's University. It was a weird name, but it was apparently very well known here in the UK. His French accent had made him stand out like a sore thumb, but he'd quickly found that nerds - if that was the proper term; he still had trouble with some colloquialism - were far more accepting than he expected. If American films were anything to go by, if he'd been in High School, he'd have been bullied.

But here, he was at home in a foreign country, his only connection to it a short visit many years ago to visit his maternal grandparents. It didn't stop him from falling in love with the people. The food was somewhat lacklustre, and at times he longed for beef bourguignon and all the comfort of his mother's cooking, but the people he adored.

It was early morning, his favourite time of the day. A towel draped over one bare shoulder, he made his way from the changing rooms over to the indoor pool. It was a Wednesday, and his classes didn't start till afternoon, giving him plenty of time to relax. He'd decided to go for a swim, since it was only later that he was meeting with some of his friends later to swap completed assignments for critiquing. Sitting at the edge, he dipped his feet into the warm water, enjoying the quiet, not quite wanting to submerge himself just yet.

This was it. It had to be the last time. Ar..Evetta would make sure of it. They would not find her here. They would not harm anyone else to get to her because they would not know where or who she was. The past three years, she’d been four different people – five including her real self. And now, she had a sixth identity. Evetta Fuentes.

Evetta stared at herself in the mirror, her hazel eyes hidden behind chocolate coloured contact lenses and her dark brown hair dyed black. Santos’ men must not find her. Ten innocent people had died because of her. Evetta would not let anything like that happen again. She would not make any friends, she would not let herself trust anyone, she would not get close to anybody. No best friend, no friends, no boyfriend. Nothing. She had to get through university unnoticed.

For her family’s sake.

Moving had been hard. Leaving Mexico had been the hardest. Mexico was home. It was all they’d known. And now they were on a different continent. Although Madre never said so, Evetta knew that moving so many times was hard on her. They had to adapt to a new place, leaving behind the friendships they’d made, however small. It wasn’t any easier for Alejandro, Carletta, Javier, and Juan. They had to attend a new school, remember their new names, make new friendships. And when they had to move, all of that was uprooted. It was just easier to never make any friends. Then they wouldn’t have to say goodbye to so many people. But it wasn’t fair to ask nine-year-olds to not make friends. Her siblings needed social activity to be healthy.

No. This time, it was her turn to sacrifice. They’d had to move so many times because she’d been careless: letting her photo be taken and posted on the internet, confiding in her ‘best friend’, accidentally letting her real name slip, getting too close to people. All that was her fault. Having to move time and again was her fault. She wouldn’t make the same mistake again. Her siblings, Madre, deserved to be able to put down roots, to make lasting friendships, to finish their education in one place. Evetta would not make any friends, she would be careful this time. No Facebook, no Instagram, no Google account, no Twitter. Nothing. She would remain a ghost, untraceable.

Evetta squared her shoulders, setting her chin determinedly. A glance at the clock told her she had a little over two hours before heading to her first class. She’d heard there was a swimming pool somewhere in the building. It would be good to swim off her nerves and collect her thoughts before heading to class. After changing into her one-piece, Evetta set out to find it. It wasn’t difficult to find; there were signs along the way.

She surveyed the pool, eyeing the blue depths with a small smile on her face. Until she saw the other person. No. Why? She could not afford to make friends. Evetta debated within herself. Go on? Leave? But she was already here. And the water looked so inviting. She let out a soft groan of frustration. She could do this. Just ignore him, pretend he doesn’t exist. If he talks to you, smile and nod.

She picked out the chair furthest from the male and set her towel there before taking off her clothes. Not making any eye contact with the boy, she dived straight into the water. She swam a few laps before taking a breather at the edge of the pool. Too late, she realised she’d stopped at the side the boy was sitting at. A Spanish swear word left her lips softly. She couldn’t just swim away now; it would be rude. Just smile and nod. And Evetta did just that.

His mind was already a thousand miles away from the pool by the time he registered that someone else was there, and he blinked himself back to the current situation. Daydreaming often got him in trouble back in the day, but here, in this weird country with its weird habits and even weirder people, it was considered a good thing - so long as he didn't do it in class. Most creative people, his Professor had told him, came up with their best ideas daydreaming.

But where his mind had been this time was a complete mystery to even him. There was a vague recollection of something familiar, like a feeling of Deja Vu that couldn't quite be placed but Drew had lost himself somewhere in worlds that have no names, tangible only to one's perceptions when one wasn't paying close attention, and the more he tried to grasp at it, the more it slipped through his fingers. Whatever he'd been thinking about, though, had been nice enough that he was left with a content smile on his face and a relaxed atmosphere around him.

Perhaps the next time he wrote a story, it would reveal itself, but that was for another time, when he wasn't shirtless and his body wasn't begging to enter the water. He didn't do it immediately, instead watching the female as she made her way flawlessly through the water towards him. Swimming had been something he'd been trained to do, part of his job as a volunteer fireman, but was never a hobby; it was just a good way to get fit - or maintain stamina.

Still, water was always refreshing, be it a hot shower or a dip in the ocean, and Drew slid himself into the pool as the female came to a stop beside him; as he did, he could've sworn that he heard her let out a cuss in... Spanish? There had been mandatory 'second language' classes in high school. Since he already spoke English fluently thanks to his mother, he'd opted for German - that, he'd quickly realised, had been a mistake. Three classes later and he'd switched to Spanish, and while he'd studied it for the remainder of his time in school, he only spoke a few sentences.

And, of course, of all the words he remembered, it had to be the rude ones, taught to him not by teachers but by classmates. At that age, it had seemed 'cool', the rebellious thing to do, whispering words that should never be repeated when the teacher wasn't looking, scribbling it on toilet walls to be appreciated by those who understood... Now he just winced at those memories. He'd been a dumb kid.

"Señorita," he greeted, the word slipping out before he quite knew what he wanted to say. Smiling at her, he added, "Good morning. It's a nice day for a swim, isn't it?"

The female before him was somewhat familiar, and he was sure he'd seen her around campus at some point; while the school was large, he'd grown up to learn that he had somewhat of a photographic memory, aiding him in many a subject - and, of course, helping him with people, too. It had never been an issue recalling name and face, although with this female now, he couldn't place any.

"We haven't met before, have we?" he asked, although that was more for formalities than anything; he would've known if they had. "I'm Drew," he added moments later, sticking his hand out. "What course are you in?"

She should have known better than to let her mind wander. She should’ve been more alert, realising which end of the pool was safer. But she’d let her mind run off, thinking about all the troubles in her life, of everything her family had been through, of the uncertainty of the future. She’d let her body enjoy the even strokes and the cool water while her mind tried to make sense of her shambled life.

Madre had a new job as a chef in a restaurant and her siblings would be starting school in a few days. They’d been in Britain only a week and the time was spent unpacking and learning a new culture. This move hadn’t been favourable to Evetta though. To tighten security even more, the feds refused to let her transfer her credits from the university she’d last attended in the U.S. There was a chance Santos could trace her from there. Instead, she was forced to start over as a first year student. All the hard work she’d done in America was lost.

And now, she was in the last place she wanted to be. Talking and making friends with someone.

At least he’s a cute someone.

¡Cállate! Shut up!

You can’t deny it though. He’s good looking.

No puedes tener amigos. [You cannot have friends.] No matter how cute they are.

Evetta, you can do this. You’ve been lying for three years. You are an expert. To her surprise, the first word out of the boy’s mouth was Spanish. Her first reaction was to be offended. What, did he think that just because she looked Hispanic she couldn’t not understand English? Sure, her English wasn’t the best but she worked hard to learn the language – not an easy thing to do since the grammar was all wrong. But as he continued, she realised that he didn’t mean any offense at all. Hmm, perhaps it was time for some fun.

“Sí,” she responded, matching his smile. “Sería más agradable si no estuvieras aquí,” she continued, making her words rapid so that only someone fluent would be able to catch them. He thought he knew Spanish and could start a conversation with a Mexican? Well, she’d teach him to never start something he could not keep up with. Evetta wasn’t sure if he understood what she just said but she’d chosen her words for a reason. If he didn’t understand, then no harm done. If he did understand, she would have made a bad first impression. After all, being rude to someone you’d just met wasn’t very nice. Perhaps he would think twice about trying to make her acquaintance now.

“And what you drew, it was nice?” she questioned, purposely misunderstanding his introduction to make fun of his name. These white people had such strange names. “Drew” was not a name, it was a verb.

“I am in Law. First year,” she replied, hearing her own accent in her tone. Four years in the States wasn’t enough to erase her accent, and even if it was, Evetta didn’t want to forget her culture, who she truly was. She’d changed her identity so many times that the only thing she could hold on to was her Mexican roots. There were the bullies who made fun of the way she spoke when she first moved to the States but Evetta didn’t let that affect her. "And you?"

Perhaps that was a mistake, he thought to himself as the female began rattling off in Spanish. Did she think he spoke it? He kept the frown off his face as he focused on the words, painstakingly running them through his mind; while he might not have been able to speak Spanish, he could (at the very least) understand it somewhat. It was the translating the understanding to verbal actions that stumbled him, and as he pieced together what she was saying, he had to fight back a surprised reaction.

Okay, I am definitely getting this wrong; surely she isn't saying what I think she is? There had been the word 'nice', and the words 'you were not', and there was only one real conclusion to draw from that.

And if that wasn't a challenge, Drew didn't know what was.

He always found that the rude ones - the ones who paraded themselves as aloof and rude - were usually the ones most in need of friends, of someone to care. It had been true about his sister, when she dated all the bad boys and got tattoos and pierced her nose; when their parents didn't know what to do, whispering among themselves late at night when they thought he wasn't awake in their tiny flat; and when, finally, he showed up in her high school one day and took her out of classes early, bringing her and her scowling face to a restaurant. They had a long, long talk that afternoon, and if their parents ever knew that Drew was the one who turned her around, he wasn't sure; neither of them ever spoke about it again, and went back to the typical love-hate relationship that every sibling has.

It took him a moment to realise that she had misunderstood his name. It was an easy enough mistake to make if English wasn't one's first language. He had been lucky enough to grow up with two of these, French and English, but if not for the fact his mother was English born and bred, he probably would have given up trying. English was, after all, a rather difficult language.

"No, no. My name is Drew. Capital D," he corrected, tone holding no judgement. The French overtone seeped through as it usually did, rolling his 'r' with just a hint of an 'h' towards the end. "Although I do draw sometimes," he added, almost as an afterthought. "Nothing fancy."

Her choice of studies was interesting. Law had not been what Drew would've guessed, but seeing the female before him only made him curious. What would drive someone to take up such a difficult subject, especially one without English as a first language? Technical terms in law was difficult; he'd done research on it for a story he wrote, and even with his command of the English language he found it difficult to comprehend at times. Wording was especially important, seeing as loopholes could be made and found simply due to a lack of a single word.

He noted that she had not given him her name, but did not push. Perhaps he had made her uncomfortable, or perhaps she did not like the idea of introducing herself to someone in such private quarters. After all, Drew was just beginning to realise how awkward this could be if he wasn't careful; they were alone, in a swimming pool. He knew his intentions, but did she?

"Creative writing. Also first year," he replied. "Are you liking the uni so far? I find it vastly different from what I'm used to, but in a good way, I suppose."

Also I was trying to find French accents for this post and stumbled across this video and just XDDDDDDDDDD

Evetta watched his reaction carefully after her Spanish tirade. He seemed to be trying to figure out the meaning of her words. She was used to paying close attention to every detail in a person’s body language. It had been a necessary habit to learn and she’d picked it up unknowingly since she was a young child, watching Santos’ men carefully so she wouldn’t aggravate them by saying the wrong thing. She’d learned early on that to survive, she had to know when to speak and when to be silent. One could learn so many things by just listening, watching, and interpreting the miniscule expressions.

With that particular skill, she could tell that the boy had figured out her words. She’d underestimated his command of the Spanish language, but that was no big deal. What she was disappointed in was his lack of a verbal response. She’d been hoping to rile him up, maybe get him to dislike her so that he would leave her alone, but when he didn’t rise to the challenge, she let it rest. There would be other opportunities to ‘defriend’ him.

If only I was Arienne, he, would have made a good friend. But she wasn’t Arienne and she had to remember that. Lying to him, rejecting friendship, was not only for her sake but also for his. The less people knew of her real identity, the less chances of Santos finding her. She’d made the mistake of trusting someone when she was first given a new identity. She’d told the girl who she was. Somehow, that information passed around and the cartel got a wind of her location. It ended up with Arienne in the hospital, two people dead – including the girl she told – and eight injured. Evetta would never make that mistake ever again. Too many lives had been lost in the search for her; she could not risk causing grief to more families. She would not let Santos’ desire for revenge hurt anyone but her.

Evetta assumed an embarrassed smile. “Lo siento! Mi error,” she exclaimed, hiding a short laugh behind her hand. “Sorry. My bad. You white people have such funny names. It is strange to name someone after an activity. I am Evetta.” And there was the first outright lie. Of course, her behaviour so far wasn’t her normal self, but it was necessary to try and stop a close friendship from blooming. “And do not call me Eve. My name is Evetta.”

She tilted her head to one side, a questioning look in her eyes. “Creative writing? Isn’t it hard to get a job as a writer? It does not pay very much.” Evetta shrugged at his question. “I have been here for only a week but I like it. The culture is very different. Some people are nice; some people are not so nice. But I’ve learned to adapt easily.”

There were so many things that one could determine from a first meeting. From the way someone held themselves to the way they spoke, all sorts of informative little tidbits could be gathered and understood about a person. As a writer, Drew understood this very well indeed; after all, he wrote about it, shaping people to be mysterious, sexy, smart, suspicious, and all sorts of other adjectives without once using the word. A tilt of the head here, a nibble of the lower lip there, and viola - a person was extremely shy and insecure.

Drew knew all this theoretically, but with an overactive imagination and with him living in fiction worlds where he knew everyone by name and every (or almost every) secret they held, it was much easier to do on paper than in real life.

So when she said nothing - did nothing - there was not much that he gathered from it, except that the female before him was not comfortable with ... with something. If he could read minds, he would have without hesitation no matter what some of his friends might've said about the morality of that superpower (it was a debate they often got into) - not for any unsavoury reason, of course. He simply wanted to understand.

And, perhaps, help, if he could. He'd always been told he had a saviour complex.

He waved away her apology. "It is weird. Why certain activities and not others? Why is there a 'Drew' but not a 'swam'?" He paused to grin at her. "Actually, though, Drew originated from a shortening of the name Andrew, and somehow along the way became a standalone name - kind of like Dick from Richard, although I doubt anybody nowadays has that for a name. Might as well call them 'Elbow'."

She gave him her name, and he had to hide his sheepishness from coming to a conclusion so early on. Sometimes he really needed to take a step back and just let things play out without trying to analyse every waking moment of his existence. Then again, he was a writer, and his friends pretty much did the same time.

"It's nice to meet you, Evetta. I like that name; it's got Latin origins, doesn't it?" he asked, making more casual conversation. It wasn't unusual of him to know the backgrounds of names; it had been the focus of one of the classes, since history of names can be vital to a novel. One wouldn't want to name a pure-bred Italian with a Chinese-based surname, after all! "What do you have against Eve, if I may ask?" he added.

"It can be," he said, shrugging. "It depends on what route you take. If you want to write novels for the rest of your life, it can be pretty hard to get a good start. However, magazine articles pay well, and that can be relatively easy to accomplish."

He nodded at her words. "Yes, the culture here is...something. Where are you originally from? I'm French myself," he said. If he were to guess, he'd say Mexico or the UK; she spoke English well enough to be from a place with at least some native speakers, but her accent was strong enough that it wasn't white-washed.

She chuckled at his words, a rich and musical laugh escaping from her throat involuntarily. She was surprised at the sound, not remembering the last time she'd laughed out loud. Running for her life had robbed her of the joy she once had, turning her into a sharp and hard girl, building spikes around her to keep people out. She hadn't had a reason to laugh, every moment of her existence spent covering her tracks, making sure she did and said nothing that would give her identity away.

But this guy, with his simple humour and being sporting about making fun of his name managed to draw a laugh out of her. He was aptly named Drew. He drew her joy out of hiding and brought it back to the light. She thought she had forgotten how to laugh but he taught her that all she needed was to be with the right person.

"Aren't you glad you're not a Richard!" she responded. "Ain't nothing gonna stop me from calling you Dick if you had been named Richard. Then that saying when someone does something bad, what was it? Oh yes, you're such a dick. That saying would have applied to you very nicely."

She shrugged at his question. In all honesty, she had no choice in her name. It had been chosen for her, her whole identity and paperwork set up for her within a week. All that was left for her to do was take on the new name. "I've been told it's Spanish for 'Eve'," she replied. "Nothing against 'Eve'. But 'Eve' is another language. I am Mexican. I do not like to be called something I'm not." What she'd said was ironic since in actual fact, her name was not Evetta. But she had to hang on to any thread that was left of her own identity. It was the one request she had for the agents who relocated them, to pick a name that had at least some ties to her culture. They did not like it since it was easier to find her that way, but they relented in the end. It was hard enough to move every few months.

"So you plan to write for magazines then?" she questioned, not out of curiosity but out of self-preservation. Her radars were up and she had to be doubly careful with him. If he published what he wrote, she had to make sure that nothing could give her away. The last thing she needed in her life was a male Taylor Swift who wrote articles about everything in his life. Oh dios! What if he has a blog and writes there? the thought hit her. Social media was one of the ways the cartel could find her. It was why she had no accounts with any social media at all. Of course, the agents set up one with her current alias, fake photos, and they put up regular posts to throw anyone off track but she didn't have one herself.

She did not pause at his next question. It was part of the drill she got every single time she assumed a new identity - three hours of intense grilling with lack of sleep and food to make sure she got her story right. "I'm from the U.S. Los Angeles, actually. The city of angels, NCIS: L.A, and a crime rate so high it can reach heaven." It was a city that had both Spanish and Mexican history, granting her credibility.

The chuckle made him smile in return, mentally giving himself brownie points. Laughter was a good sign (or so he hoped) and helped him relax a little. It was hard trying to talk to someone who was giving him a cold shoulder, but now that she'd laughed, hopefully it was a sign that she was warming up to him.

Her reply made him laugh. "I don't mind so much if I were that; I could always pretend that I was named after a great king." He regarded her for a few seconds. "I mean, you have read Robin Hood, right? It's only one of the best classics out there, although in it, King Richard seemed a bit like a Gary Stu..." Trailing off, he gave a sheepish smile. "I'm sorry; writers talk, that. I'll explain it if you want, but, uh, it isn't that interesting."

It was only then that her words fully sunk in, and he hid a frown. Did she mean it would've applied to him BECAUSE he was a dick, or did she mean that if he were named Richard it would have applied? He couldn't figure it out and it was somewhat worrying, but he didn't have time to nitpick and analyse semantics right now - not in the middle of conversation.

Nodding as she explained, he couldn't help but grin slightly. He understood that perfectly, being from another country and all. France was in his blood no matter who he was with or where he was, and he'd rather be shot than have to say he was anything other than a proud French. Or at least, that's what he liked to imagine -- and he was a writer, after all.

"I get that," he said, offering nothing more. If he started talking about France, Drew knew he'd never shut up, and that was never a good thing.

Shrugging slightly, he said, "Yes." He paused for a moment. "And no. I want to write a science fiction novel series, but my Professor says a good place to start is by submitting stories of that genre to magazines. Strange Horizons, Interzone, Weird Tales... These are places to start, to be discovered, but not for life."

He chuckled. "I watch that show sometimes. It's got good writing, but sometimes can be... ah, what's the word?" He faltered for a few moments, mind suddenly blank, before continuing. "Predictable." Shrugging lightly, he said, "We have screenwriting classes and our latest assignment is to write a report on any TV show, which means our homework is to binge watch an entire series. So much for work starting out lightly, eh?"

“Right. You would gain so much respect as His Royal Highness, Ruler of Dickenland, King Dick Dickinson!” Evetta dramatized before breaking out into a bright smile. “That would be one hell of a king, no?”

A corner of her lips turned up in a smirk as he went on his writer’s rant. It was very cute to watch him ramble on and get lost in his passion. Seeing someone get so caught up in something they loved was always amazing to watch – the way their eyes lit up, shining with excitement. The look suited Drew and unconsciously, Evetta wanted to see more of that. Which probably explained the next words that left her mouth.

“Oh, I don’t mind hearing it,” she said, though she knew perfectly well what a Gary Stu was. Though her English education was poor when she grew up in Mexico, the moment she attended school in the States, she had been forced to get better at the language, accepting the tutoring some of the teachers gave her, and burning the midnight oil studying the language that could not make up its mind. Her hard work paid off, earning the seventh place in her Literature class and fifth place in her English class by the time she graduated.

“Lo dudo,” (I doubt it) she muttered under her breath, quiet enough that he wouldn’t be able to pick it up unless he had The BFG’s hearing abilities. France was a white people’s country while Mexicans were often on the receiving end of racial discrimination. She doubted very much that he understood where she was coming from, her need to have pride in her heritage in spite of – or maybe because of – the racism that she faced when people caught on to her accent and skin colour.

But she couldn’t blame him for saying what he did. He didn’t know that she was born and raised in Mexico, that her roots went far deeper than just being part of the Hispanic community in Los Angeles. She almost wanted to blurt out no you don’t get it because you don’t face the discrimination I do but she kept her mouth shut. She’d already said too much and she had to remind herself of the lives lost because she confided in someone she thought she could trust. She couldn’t do that again.

His positive answer was a sledgehammer to her stomach. He was going to write for magazines. And here she thought she had found someone she could sort of become friends with. Just as her brain started to plan how to cut ties with him, he continued talking and she let out a slow quiet breath of relief. It didn’t make the problem go away but at least he wasn’t going to be writing about his life and publishing it. That would’ve been disastrous.

“Science fiction?” Evetta repeated. “Why science fiction? It is hard to get a balance between too much science that it becomes gibberish and incomprehensible and some science to make it fit into that genre.”

“Well ain’t that nice!” Evetta exclaimed. “I’m so jealous of you right now, you have no idea. We law students would give almost anything to be able to have the time to watch TV shows. But no, we have so much to read and so much to write and case studies to think through and laws to memorise we have no time for anything else, much less TV shows or movies. And this is just my first semester here.”

Though she sounded like she was complaining about her course, Evetta wouldn’t change it for anything. She’d worked hard to be able to get into this career and she wasn’t about to give it up just because it proved challenging. Law would let her fight crime, stand up for the innocent, and change the world, or at least some parts of it. There was no other career for her.

He laughed, shaking his head at her words. "It would be a country full of dicks," he said, seriously. Pausing, he grinned slyly at her. "I know a few people who would fit right in," he added, chuckling again. "It's a good thing my father was sensible enough to name me Drew. It's simple and classy - if I do say so myself."

For a moment more, he hesitated. Talking about writing was something he loved (it was his passion, after all) but he also knew it could be boring for others. He didn't want to go on a rant because somebody asked him out of politeness; after all, "go on" was one of those phrases that were either said genuinely or for the sake of social etiquettes - the only trouble was figuring out which.

Finally, after what felt like a while debating it (but was in reality only a few seconds), Drew said, "Well, how much do you read? Stories, I mean, not biographies or true things. There are some books and stories - although usually self-published or things posted online by amateurs - where the protagonist is perfect. Everything that happens it not his or her fault, and anything bad that they do is only because they had no choice."

He shrugged. "We call those characters Gary Stu - for the male version - or Mary Stu - for the female." Pausing for a moment, he added, "Or Gary Sue and Mary Sue, depending who you ask. Both have become acceptable, although I can't remember the semantics of either."

Her mouth moved a little, and for a moment Drew thought she was going to speak - but when he heard nothing, he assumed it had been a sigh. Unless, of course, she'd been speaking about him under her breath like she did that first time. Why, though, was still something that bothered him; try as he might, he couldn't figure it out.

Tilting his head side to side, he scrunched his nose in a 'not-really' motion. "Well, not necessarily. There are many branches of science fiction - dystopian, which is like, post end of the world; utopian, which is like the opposite of dystopian, where the world is almost ended and then a perfect ruler or government takes over and everything seems perfect; hard-core, which is like all those ones that don't make sense; and then there's those that are in-between everything else."

Gesturing towards her, Drew said, "For example, if I were to write a story about an alien female in disguise who meets a human, that's considered science fiction - and I don't need to be accurate about anything! I could always make up the habits and culture of the alien."

"However, I'm focusing more on DNA and space," he concluded. "It's futuristic, but it involves a little research into those two topics, but no more than the average high school exam stuff."

He grinned at her. "Well, if you ever need a break, you're more than welcomed to come watch a few episodes with me." Leaning back against the edge of the pool, he rested his arms against the side and allowed his legs to lift off the floor, enjoying the weightlessness of it all.

"Actually, it's not as easy as it sounds. We have to analyse it, so it's not just watching but nitpicking and tearing apart every little thing that happens - down to the stutter of a character. It helps if we have the original scripts of said series. I think the University has made arrangements with TV producers, because we were told there's a database available. I haven't picked a series yet; maybe Sherlock, if it's available. That only has three episodes." He paused, realising he was going off track. "Anyway, that's only one class. We have homework from the others as well, so it's quite exhausting. It seems I've drunk more coffee this past couple weeks than water my entire life!"

She arched an eyebrow at his words. “Sensible?” she repeated, then tilted her head to one side ever so slightly, assuming an innocent expression. “If you like being the reason for teardrops on Taylor Swift’s guitar, sure.” Evetta shrugged. “I mean, if you’re into that sort of thing. Hey, no judgement from me man,” she continued, breaking into a grin.

“Ah yes. Those kinds of stories. Where the main character can do no wrong,” she said. “I do not like stories like that. They irritate me.” She didn’t understand why anyone would think of writing a perfect character. It just reminded people of their imperfection and that was a nasty thing to do. Besides, no one would be able to relate to the character anyway, since no one was perfect.

She nodded her head as he talked of the different types of science fiction. She wasn’t really interested but hey, he was a cute guy. Then he said something which confused her a little. “Wouldn’t aliens be fantasy?” she asked, her eyebrow creasing. She never could tell the difference between science fiction and fantasy, unless of course it had a lot of sciency stuff in it.

“That sounds like hard work,” she commented. “DNA is not an easy topic to study.”

At his offer, Evetta felt her hesitation rise as she questioned herself. Was she going to take the same risk and make friends, get close to them, only to have to up and move away again? Spending time with people meant getting to know them better, but it also meant they would get to know her better. Was she ready for that? And would befriending him jeopardise everything she’d worked hard for?

He was a nice, easy-going guy and if she lived another life, it wasn’t hard to imagine being friends with him. But the problem was that she wasn’t living another life. This was her life, her reality, and the decisions she made did not only affect her, it affected her whole family. One tiny slip up and that was it. They would have to move again, assume new identities, change schools, change jobs, everything would be uprooted.

She didn’t want to say ‘yes’ and be the cause of moving yet again but she also didn’t want to say ‘no’ and close the door on potential friendship. “I might take you up on that,” she decided to say, smiling a little at his relaxed position. It left room for her to go both ways and she could decide when the moment came.

“Tell me about it!” she exclaimed. “I think I have so much caffeine in my body that it runs in my veins instead of blood.” After a short pause, she continued,” But do you like it? What you do?”